


After Night Fades and Dawn Breaks

by oWhiteKiwibird



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Grief/Mourning, Romance or Bromance depending on how you read it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-16
Updated: 2017-09-16
Packaged: 2018-12-30 09:52:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12106137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oWhiteKiwibird/pseuds/oWhiteKiwibird
Summary: The darkness is vanquished and dawn breaks.But for some, it’s not the happy ending they wanted.In other words: What happens to Eos and Prompto after the ending.





	After Night Fades and Dawn Breaks

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: This fic assumes you know all the main game story, as well as the final cutscene of Episode Prompto (where Noctis apologizes for mistaking Prompto as Ardyn, they bro it out, and Noctis promises to make a better place with no borders.)  
> You can take this as romance if you will, or really heavy bromance if not.  
> Suggested soundtrack: Final Fantasy XV ost “Somnus”
> 
> \+ Also, the first bit about finding a Cactuar for Talcott in Altissa and never getting back in time to give it to him is totally my own experience. I never used Umbra to go to the ‘past’, and before I knew it, the next time I saw Talcott was when he drove Noctis to Hammerhead. And I saw the 4 Cactuar in his truck and remembered the one in my metaphorical pocket… the FEELS

The day before they leave Hammerhead for Insomnia, Noctis empties that magical other-dimension where he keeps all his weapons and supplies.

With a ghostly shatter of light, he starts summoning out everything they’ve gathered up all those years ago. Food, ingredients, a stash of cup noodles, odd ends of Daemon parts, accessories, and trinkets.

Noctis holds up a marble figure of a Cactuar with a quirk of his lips.

“You remember this? We got this for Talcott in Altissia, but we… I never saw him after that, so I still have it. Do you know if he still likes them?”

Prompto doesn’t. He should, since he’s been around Talcott for years now, but when they talk these days it’s always about who’s running low on rations or where has what kind of trouble and practical things like that.

He shrugs, grinning like he hasn’t in ten years.

“Dunno, but you should give it to him anyway. The guy—” not a boy anymore “—still looks up to you, he’ll thank you even if you give him an Iron-giant’s head on a platter.”

Noctis gives him what's supposed to be a flat look, but the glimmer of shared humor in his eyes gives him away.

“Well. I did see the other Cactuar figures we gave him in his truck, so I guess it wouldn’t hurt to offer.”

He sets it to the side carefully.

They go on like that for a while. Noctis summons up another odd end they’d collected on that road trip all those ten years ago, and Prompto watches from his side. Despite Prompto having thought he’d forgotten all of it, when Noctis asks, he _does_ remember them and their stories.

They’re more than odd ends and trinkets. They’re pieces of memories. As good as, or maybe even better than the photos Prompto had stopped taking. It feels—it feels like home, in a weird way. Home and safe and familiar and warm, like how he remembers basking in sunlight to be.

Prompto never remembers Noctis doing anything like this before, but he internally shrugs. It has been ten years after all, and this is the most crucial battle they’ve ever faced. Maybe it’s a preparation thing, to gear himself up for the upcoming final showdown. Maybe it’s even like how Prompto himself would disassemble and reload his guns before setting out on a particularly long trip. Either way, he’s too caught up in the warm memories he’d thought were long buried, too busy smiling and laughing that he doesn’t notice the painstaking care in Noct’s every move, the wistful stroke of his fingers as if a lover’s final embrace.

Once Noctis has taken everything out, the room is packed full. He summons most of the weapons and potions back to his Armiger, making them disappear with a scattering of light. He goes to the food next, and only packs a little of it, leaving the rest to help the struggling supplies of the people in Hammerhead.

And that’s all.

Prompto blinks.

“You’re not going to take anything else?”

“This is all I’ll need.”

Yeah, for the battle, maybe, but Noctis had always been something of a hoarder.

Prompto walks over to where the sleek fishing rod has been propped against a wall and picks it up.

“Even this? You’re even going to leave behind your _fishing rod?_ ”

The Prince—King—huffs a laugh at Prompto’s scandalized exclamation.

“I won’t need it,” is all he says.

Prompto thought he meant _I won’t need it for a while._

He finds out later that Noctis meant _I won’t need it anymore._

 

*

 

He tells them when they’re around their last campfire.

They’ve left Hammerhead for Insomnia, just the four of them, just like the old days. Gladio set camp with the familiar easy grin that he’d stopped wearing a few years ago, and Ignis hummed as he prepared the ingredients Noctis handed him, making a little of everyone’s favorite dishes.

Noctis tells them after the meal, when they’re sitting around the campfire. His words are quiet and calm, almost soothing in a way that’s so contrary to what he’s saying.

He tells them of Ardyn. He tells them of the Crystal. He tells them of the prophecy.

He tells them he has to die.

They’re all shocked into silence. Ignis has his head cocked in Noctis’ direction in that way he does when he’s listening intently, even though no one’s saying anything anymore, and Gladio has his lips pressed into a grim line, the scowl making the scars on his face stand out strikingly.

And Prompto—Prompto just kind of stares, unbelieving, unwilling to believe. He feels like he’s underwater, he feels numb.

He can tell, vaguely, that Ignis and Gladio are taking the news a little better than he is. Maybe it’s because they’re more of adults than Prompto, maybe it’s because they were raised learning of duty and sacrifice. They’re devastated, yes, but they accept their King’s words with quiet understanding.

But Prompto—he just, he _can't._ Because all these years Prompto hadn’t been waiting for the King—he’d been waiting for _Noctis._

He’s not a Shield or a Hand or a retainer. He’s a _friend._ Noctis’ friend. And maybe this makes him a terrible person, but he’d rather have Noctis by his side in eternal night than to walk alone in daylight without him.

 

But what Prompto wants has never had sway over fate, and when Noctis makes to walk up the stairs leading to the throne room and his death, all he can do is watch helplessly.

“So this is farewell,” Ignis murmurs, and Prompto knows that he’s trying for normalcy.

Noctis nods. “Yeah. Here we are.”

Gladio inclines his head with a ghost of a smile. “It’s all you.”

Noctis nods once. Prompto’s throat is so thick with unsaid words and unshed tears that he can’t bring himself to say anything. He can only watch as Noctis walks up the stairs with his back straight, chin up, shoulders proud. He walks tall, every inch the King he is.

The sight of his best friend walking to his death is what finally gets his voice to come back to him. Prompto’s voice is already wrecked with a hint of tears in them.

“No turning back now.”

But at his words, Noctis stills his footsteps, and _does_ turn around.

Prompto’s heart leaps with hope when Noctis looks at him directly.

“Prompto.”

But then his midnight blue eyes slide over to the others beside him, and Prompto’s heart and hope withers and dies again.

“Gladio. Ignis. I leave it to you. Walk tall... ...my friends.”

It’s as final as any goodbye they’ll ever say.

Ignis, always the smooth one, pushes up his shades and nods. “Godspeed. And take care.”

Then both Ignis and Gladio put their hand over their heart, bowing in synchronization born from noble birth and education.

“Majesty.”

Prompto jerks himself into following their lead. He bows last, but he stays bowed the longest. When he slowly brings himself out of his bow, Noctis taps a fist against his own heart in response.

“The time has come,” he simply says.

Then he turns around again, and walks up the stairs.

This time, he doesn’t turn back.

 

*

 

Prompto, Ignis, and Gladio are fighting the barrage of Daemons that keep springing up in an attempt to buy Noctis whatever time he needs. They’ve all grown into formidable forces over the past ten years, but the Daemons pop up like heads of a hydra; cut down one, and two more bubble up in its place.

Until, suddenly, they don’t.

A final roar echoes around the suddenly empty courtyard, and the trio glance at each other warily. They wait another moment, just to make sure this isn’t some elaborate trap, and then by unspoken consent they turn their heavy steps to the throne room.

When they make it to the landing in front of the throne, they can barely see because the lights Ardyn had turned on seem to have been extinguished. But before anyone can move away, light filters in from the windows, shedding a ray of soft illumination on the throne.

It’s the first ray of sunlight in years, the first dawn after an eternity of night, but Prompto can’t even bring himself to care because he’s too caught up in what the light has revealed to give a gil about the light itself.

There, on the throne, sits Noctis. His hands clasp the armrests, his back is straight against the seat, and his head is slightly bowed with his eyes closed. He looks peaceful, instead of worn and tired like he did just a moment ago. Almost like he could be sleeping.

If it weren't for the great sword impaling his heart, nailing him to the throne.

A strangled sound escapes Gladio while Prompto bites back a sob. Because he _knows_ that sword. He knows that one-winged hilt, that elegant engraving on the blade. He’s seen Noctis wielding it ten years ago in the capital of Nifelheim, he’d sat by Noct a few days ago when he had pulled out all his Armiger and pointed to and named every one, he’s seen it wielded with deadly precision in Noctis’ hand just a few hours ago.

It's the sword of the Father, the sword of King Regis.

And if one Armiger is impaling Noctis’ heart, it’s only obvious what all the other ones did as Noctis sat on the throne, subjecting himself to his cruel fate.

 _Off my chair, jester,_ Noctis had said to Ardyn. _The King sits there._

Prompto had had to bite his tongue when he’d heard that, because if anything, Noctis’ words were a jest when they all knew he was soon to die. But...

It looks like the King sits there after all.

 

*

 

They find Ardyn’s corpse at Noctis’ feet. Some hunters take it out and burn it, but no one dares touch Noctis. No one dares even suggest they move him from his throne, from his grave.

In the end, no one needs to, because as the sunlight touches him, illuminating his slumbering form in an unearthly ethereal beauty, the King’s body turns into something that’s not quite stone but something a little clearer, brighter.

He turns into a statue, sword and all, still sitting on his throne.

It’s a gift, some people say. A monument given to them by the gods. Even as Insomnia and the rest of the world is rebuilt, no one dares to touch the throne room. It’s preserved in it’s half crumbled glory, sunlight filtering in to bathe the stony King in a halo of light.

All Prompto can think of is the stone figures of the royal tombs and wonder if they were turned into stone as well, frozen in time.

He can’t help but cry every time he thinks about it.

He never finds himself able to step foot in the throne room again.

 

*

 

Many people come to ‘pay their respect,’ as it is. Talcott, Dave, Cor, Cindy, Aranea. Hunters, civilians, all the people Noctis saved. They all come flocking to the ruined wreck of the throne room that still somehow holds a regal air. There is a certain magic there. Everyone becomes hushed in there, struck by awe at the sight of the King on his throne, the painfully large sword piercing his heart, the dust motes dancing in the sunlight and glinting like the magical scatters of light of the Armigers.

“It… it almost feels like he’s right _there,_ ” Iris confesses later, after having gazed up at Noctis with silent tears streaming her face.

“First Regi, and now you, huh,” Cid gruffs when he makes his way to Insomnia.

When he first got word that the King was back and the darkness vanquished, he had started to make his way to the Crown City. Everyone had tried to dissuade him, fearful of what the long journey might do to his health, but the old man had been unyielding. When he finally hobbles into the throne room, everyone pretends not to notice the wetness in his eyes as he squints up at the throne.

“Guess I’m doomed to be too late to see either King. Bastards.”

Prompto receives word that Cid dies a week later.

As he stands at Cid’s funeral, he wonders if the old man is finally having that reunion he wanted in the afterlife.

Prompto desperately wants it too. But he can’t follow Cid. He can’t, because...

_I leave it to you. Walk tall... ...my friend._

Prompto balls his hands into tight fists. His nails bite into his palms, weeping blood like the tears his eyes can’t muster to shed.

 

*

 

They’re having a meeting to discuss rebuilding the world. Prompto himself declines to join, but before it starts he snags Ignis’ arm.

“No borders,” Prompto tells him. The other man blinks behind his shades, clearly perplexed by the out-of-the-blue words.

“Beg your pardon?”

Prompto draws in a breath, memories of that night after Noctis had saved him from Ardyn coming back to the forefront of his mind.

_Once this is over, I say we break down the borders. Come together as one nation._

“No borders,” he repeats firmly. “Noctis told me he’d bring us all together as one nation. Since he’s—” _dead_ “—busy, we’ll just have to do it for him.”

Ignis looks at him—well, not really, but he faces Prompto as if he  _can_ see him, and in the end, he nods.

“Very well. No borders.”

After Ignis turns and leaves the room, Prompto’s back hits a wall, and he allows himself to slide down to the floor and break down as the rest of the memory dominates his entire mind.

_I’m gonna make this world a better place. You with me?_

_Uh-huh. Ever at your side._

 

*

 

They rename the city of Insomnia.

Now, the city is called Noctis.

It is a tribute, a memoir, a promise to never forget the long night and the King who saved them from it.

The day the city’s new name is officially announced, Prompto picks up the camera he’d forgotten for a long time.

The last time he’d really looked at it was when Noctis had asked for one photo, right before he opened the doors to the throne room.

He turns the camera over in his hands, remembering how Noctis had looked at all the photos there, one by one, slowly and lovingly as if committing each to his memory.

Most of the photos had been from before Noctis had been sucked into the Crystal. After that, Prompto hadn’t taken many pictures. He’d made a few half-hearted attempts in the first year or so, snapping shots of things he thought he’d like to show Noctis when he came back. But he ended up deleting most of them, uninspired and forced as they were.

But Prompto remembers how Noctis had looked at even the few that he’d never gotten around to deleting, how unbelievably soft his eyes were.

In the end, Noctis had taken just one photo with him. _That_ photo.

Prompto wishes he’d taken so much more photos for Noctis to see.

He hesitates, his hands pausing from turning the camera over.

He still _can_ do that. If Cid is meeting King Regis in the afterlife or something, then Prompto can meet Noctis again someday too. And there is so much of this world that Prompto wants to show him. He wants to show Noctis what happened to the world he saved, how the people aren’t thriving yet but getting there, how much more brighter and happier everyone is, how much of a better world he’s made.

Prompto puts down his camera with a sense of purpose he hasn’t had since he’d lost his best friend.

He has something to do.

 

*

 

He shaves.

He puts on his old clothes, the ones he’d worn ten years ago on their road trip. The pants are a bit shorter and the vest a bit less loose, but they still fit reasonably well enough. Prompto hasn’t grown much in the last ten years, what with the shortage of food and lack of sunlight. Before, this would have irritated him, but now he’s just fiercely glad.

Cindy hands him the keys to the car that was made with the salvaged parts of the old Regalia with knowing eyes and a sad smile, and he loads camping supplies and provisions in the trunk.

He gets in behind the wheel and places Noct’s old fishing rod and his camera on the passenger seat.

Prompto grins brightly at the fishing rod.

“You and me, buddy. We’ve got a whole world to see.”

He can almost see his best friend sitting there, elbow propped on the windowsill and smirking a lazy grin, voice light and teasing just as it was ten years ago.

_Better make tracks. Chop chop, Prompto._

Prompto’s hand brushes over the sleek fishing rod and his camera one more time before grasping the steering wheel.

“There in a jiffy.”

 


End file.
